Coming Home
by HRFan
Summary: Set some time after the end of season 9 - vaguely spoilerish, or at least speculative as to what might happen then. Thanks for the reading,and for the comments, which make it all worth doing...


10

**1.**

He'd only been to Norfolk once before – on a similar occasion, when he was close to burn out, after his third Northern Ireland tour and on the verge of a bitter divorce. At the time, he'd chosen Norfolk on a whim, simply because he needed to go somewhere. This time, he knows. The long beaches. The wild, deserted salty countryside in the midwinter. The knowledge that given where he is, away from London, officially on vacation, having told no one of his exact location, he will have peace at last, for a couple of weeks. The wind, bracing, strong, beating down his face, leaving him pleasurably exhausted after a day spent outdoors with Scarlett. But above all, the sea, which he never tires of contemplating, moving, peaceful, stormy, changing colours constantly, shimmering with light at dawn, forbiddingly dark at dusk…

He's left his work mobile phone and computer at home. He's not told anyone on the Grid where he is, except for the DG whom he sworn to secrecy, on the explicit understanding that he was not to be recalled to London under any circumstance save a family tragedy. He's booked the cottage under an alias. He's paid for all his expenses so far in cash. He's given his daughter the number of a pay as you go mobile he bought especially for the occasion – just in case. He's not even taken his diary with him. He's cut off every single tie. There's no TV in the cottage, no radio even, and the nearest shop is so far away that he can't be bothered to go every day to get the newspapers. There might have been a bomb in London, or in Newcastle, or in Glasgow, or elsewhere in the UK: he would not know about it. He doesn't even want to know. All he wants to do, knowing that the feeling will not last, is sleep, eat properly, walk, and look at the sea. All he wants to have, knowing that the feeling will last forever, is what he knows he probably cannot have.

He nearly bottled out at the very last minute, when he gathered the team together – or what was left of it, after Lucas' betrayal – in his office, his short term replacement standing next to him. _I am going on holidays for two weeks_, he'd told them. _I will be off the Grid completely, with the DG's approval. John here will take over as head of section while I am away. _He'd looked at them in turns, Tariq, Beth, Ruth…hating what he was doing to them, but knowing that the point had come where he had to think of himself first, lest he should break completely. _But…what will we do? _Tariq had asked plaintively sounding and looking like a little boy lost. _You'll be fine. We've dealt with the aftermath of…_He'd not been able to finish his sentence then. _I'll be back in two weeks_, he'd said instead. _Can we…can John reach you if there's an emergency?_ Beth had asked. _No. I won't have my phone or access to email, _he'd insisted. _Where are you going?_ Tariq had asked? He'd hesitated then, aware of the stiffness of Ruth's silence. _Somewhere nice_, he'd said gently, unmistakably closing the door on further inquiries.

They'd filed out of his office, Tariq and Beth despondently, Ruth impenetrable as she has been those last few weeks. He'd done one final briefing with John, whom he doesn't know very well but implicitly trusts. He'd waited until they'd all left and gone home before shutting down the blinds and light in his office. Hoping in vain, _knowing_ that it was a vain hope, that Ruth would have lingered. Yet what would she? Given how tense, abrupt, closed off he's been with her since his marriage proposal, why would she give him the time of the day?

And yet…he'd driven past her bus stop that evening, some way away from his normal route home. She was standing there. He'd slowed the car down. She'd seen him, he knew that, but had made no sign she wanted to talk to him. He'd looked back at her, for a long time through the windscreen of his car while waiting for the light to go red, willing her to understand why he was there, and what he was doing. The light had gone green and he had had to drive off.

It's been a week and he's given up waiting.

**2. **

Granted, she is good at her job, but it took just two hours to find his whereabouts. She can't figure out whether he's deliberately made it easy for her, or whether he simply wanted to go on holidays and went for the lowest level of secrecy which the Service prescribes for officers of his rank. And she can't decide what to do, _if_ he made it easy for her. She's been sitting on this for a week, torn with indecision, fear and longing. She knows that she is standing at a crossroads. That if he did leave a trail for her and if she does not act on it, then this is it for them; that if she does act on it, then she is committing herself to him.

And yet…she's scared of getting it wrong, of assuming that he still wants her as she knows she wants him, of being rebuked once more by him, in the abrupt, tense, I-m-your-boss manner that he adopts these days with her and which she can't stand anymore.

Then again, why would he have detoured via her bus stop, leaving work much earlier than usual?

**3.**

Late afternoon, as the winter sun begins its descent, he can hear the sound of a car engine through the crisp sound of the fire he has just lit up, trudging up the small country lane that leads to the cottage. He forces himself to stand still, and to ignore Scarlett's frantic barking. No one has driven here this past week except for the milk van early morning. It might be the landlord. The DG. His daughter.

Or a hired assassin acting at the behest of some rogue regime or terrorist network keen to claim one of the biggest British scalps on the market. He did not take his work phone, or his computer, but he did take his gun. He gives himself until he can at least see the car, before reaching for it in the kitchen drawer.

He moves away from the window back into the shadows of the room. He can now see the car. He doesn't recognise it. It's silver, shiny, obviously new. In the fading light he cannot make out the driver. He opens the drawer.

Whoever they are will know that his dog is in, and that he too is likely to be at home. He knows that he has very little time to protect himself. Perhaps he doesn't, after all, want to protect himself…

The driver climbs out.

He lets his hand fall by his side.

What he most wants.

What he most fears.

**4.**

She takes in her surrounding: the small cottage with its granite walls, slated roof and white window frames; the astounding view of the sea, limitless, merging with the sky on the distant horizon, the lovely front garden with a path leading to the back; the silence, save from some excited barking; the air, cold, salty, rejuvenating…

If he is in, he must know that she is here. He must have been alerted by the sound of the engine, not to say Scarlett. And, he has not opened the door. He has not yet shown any sign that he is welcoming her presence.

She falters, hands shaking, and struggles to lock the hired car. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she should not have come.

But she has driven all this way, after much agonising, and she won't turn back. At least not now, not before getting answers to the questions which she has been torturing herself for weeks now.

She takes a deep breath, and walks up to the house.

The door opens.

**5. **

'You found me. How long did it take you?'

'Two hours.' His eyes widen. 'You left a trail the size of the London Eye, Harry. Or should I say, Robert (your father's first name), Graham (your son's), Fitzgerald (your mother's maiden name.'

'There are many, many Robert Graham Fitzgeralds in the world', he points out.

'25,359, to be precise, if you include Britain, Ireland, the US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Of whom only 13, 877 are men between 18 and 60.'

'Why look at the 18-56 range?'

'How many people aged below 18 do you think do holiday things like booking a place to stay? Harry, I'm very happy to tell you how I did it but…could we possibly do this inside?'

If the light were better she would swear he actually blushes with embarrassment. 'Sorry. Of course. What was I thinking. Please come in', he says awkwardly.

He pulls back when she comes in, taking care not to brush against her.

The room is lovely, with exposed oak beams and a huge fireplace. She takes off her coat and sits down on the sofa, seemingly at ease, inwardly a bundle of nerves. He did not seem surprised to see her, but has not exactly made her feel very welcome either. He's taken the armchair across the sofa, by the fireplace. He looks younger, fitter, healthier, than when he left. Incredibly attractive too, in his chinos and thick woollen jumper. And as she lets her eyes linger over him, she is close enough to him to notice that his knuckles are white on the armrests.

'How did you know where to look? I could have gone anywhere in the world' he asks doggedly.

'Ah. Well. I looked up your file. You had a month hiatus between leaving the Army and joining the Service. After Northern Ireland…You came to Norfolk to…recuperate. I thought there might be a chance you'd do the same this time.'

He tenses up. He wasn't expecting that. 'That information is classified. In fact the whole goddamn file is classified.' She throws him a look. 'OK. OK. If you can break into foreign services' systems ours must be a piece of cake for you. But how did you know _where _to look in Norfolk? I've paid for everything in cash.'

His tone flat, and he's crossed his arms. Still, she has to go on. 'Easy. City councils databases of house owners who pay local taxes at the 'second home' rate. 3,212, if you want to know.'

'That's a lot of phone calls to place.'

'Not really, if you cross-reference with holiday lettings sites. Particularly if you start with the most remote places.'

' Well. I'm impressed. I shouldn't be really. Knowing you.' He looks towards the fire, unable to meet her gaze, fearful of what she might say next.

'You must have known that I would use this…particular route.'

'Not exactly', he confesses, hoping to postpone the inevitable. 'If you had looked up all credit card transactions under the name R. G. Fitzgerald from the last twenty years you'd have found some relating to Norfolk, from back then. I used that name then. As for the rest…yes, I guessed you'd think of council taxes and so on.'

'I did that, Harry. _After_ getting your file. To double-check.'

He tenses up. 'You could have done that first. You didn't need to get my file.' He's abrupt now, close to anger. 'In fact you had no right to do that.'

'You're right. I had no right. But I had to do it.'

He clenches his teeth. 'Why?'

And for the first time since she's been here, and started on this long difficult conversation, her composure slips. It's her turn to grip the armrest. '_You _know my file. _You _know some of the most intimate, most difficult details of my childhood, of my student days…' She looks away. 'Of my relationship with my stepbrother. You've read transcripts of my psych assessments….And _I _know so very little of your past really, of what makes you tick in general, of who you are behind the in-control mask … There's interesting stuff in there. 'Stubborn, doesn't take criticisms well, is more than equal to the job but lately has shown signs of burning out. Might be due to RE's returns and unresolved feelings.' That's a note from Tring to the DG, dated two months ago.'

'Look, I don't know why you want to…'

'What you went through…', she continues regardless, hating the pain she is causing him, but sensing that it is the only way to get through his defences. 'Would you ever have told me that Blake had you arrested and tortured?'

'Ruth, please, don't …' His entire body has gone rigid with fear at what she might say next, remembering every word, in his file, written by those who tortured him. He remembers his pain, his moans of despair, and what he said, and revealed in those, some of the darkest moments of his life.

'Do you know, Harry…they wrote down everything you said then, while your system was pumped up with drugs. You were delirious most of the time…you talked about your failed marriage, your children…But then you know that of course. You don't have the clearance to look at the file but obviously you'd find a way…'

'Please', he whispers, unable to look at her, his hand covering his face.

'You talked about me too. A lot in fact. Your regrets. Havensworth…How inadequate you felt in every way.' Her voice cracks. 'I had no idea at the time that you felt so deeply for me. Or when I got back for that matter.'

He's about to get up and to ask her to leave but suddenly he hears the rustle of her skirt and smell her scent and before he knows it she is kneeling next to his armchair and gently takes his hand away from his face. 'Look at me, Harry. Please look at me.' He brings himself to turning towards her, his eyesight blurred with tears. Her gaze is obscured by the sheen of her own tears yet luminous with love. 'If you and I are to be together…then it needs to be on a footing of equality. Perhaps not at work of course, but at least between us. Don't you see?'

He clasps her hands in his, tightly. 'I thought you didn't want us to be together, at least not in that way, so…'

'I didn't know what I wanted. And I tried afterwards to work through it but things became… difficult between us. And I didn't know what _you_ wanted anymore', she says softly.

'You mean that I behaved badly around you most of the time', he says with a slight smile. 'I'm so sorry about that. It's just…' He shakes his head. 'I was finding it impossibly hard.' He raises her hands to his lips.

'Did I get it right, Harry? Were you hoping I'd come? I figured that if you really wanted to be left alone you wouldn't leave any trail at all…I mean, I'm good at what I do but if you'd called yourself John Smith and moved about in caravan bought cash there's no way I could have found you', she says, gripped suddenly with irrational uncertainty.

'Of course I was hoping you would come', he replies, his voice rough with feeling. 'Why do you think I used those names? And on my last day….after work…I drove past your bus stop. You saw me there didn't you? I was hoping you'd understand. You see…we'd been so tense around each other, I couldn't really ask you to come here with me, could I..plus, I had proposed. You'd said no. And I just didn't know what else to do, what to think…'

'Why did you want me to come here?'

He strokes her face and looks through the window. 'Grab your coat and come with me', he says, getting up with a spring in his step.

She complies, curious to see what he has in mind. He leads her to the beach, five minutes away. The sun is setting, its dark red disk of light slowly plunging into the sea. The air is cold and crisp. He wraps his arm around her shoulders. 'You were right that night. We can't have a conventional married life. But I wanted to show you that we can have moments like this, away from everyone and everything, where the only thing that matters is the beauty of nature around us and the fact that we are together.' He turns her to him. 'I love you, and I want to make it work. Properly. I don't care about being married or not. All I want is you. Always', he whispers. 'Do you understand?'

She nestles against him, and slides her arms around his waist. 'Yes. I love you too', she murmurs. She looks up at him, he looks down at her, and their lips meet, very tentatively at first, awkwardly almost, their noses bumping, not quite knowing yet how to give and receive. Soon they find their rhythm together, drunk on each other's smell and texture.

By common and unspoken agreement they walk back to the house. She picks up her bag from the car. They get inside, and without missing a beat or a step, and without uttering a single word, they go straight upstairs to the bedroom.

He places his hands on her shoulders. 'We don't have to do this now', he says softly. 'Really we don't.'

She smiles at him, tenderly. 'Don't you think we've waited long enough?'

And so he goes for her.

**5.**

He collapses on her and rolls on his side, keeping her anchored to him, his heart beating wildly, still pulsating with pleasure, his breath ragged. She's not moving but he's not worried. He waits, simply, for her to come back to the surface…

At the highest point of her climax the world went black. She slowly emerges, only to find herself encircled in his arms. 'What happened?', she asks drowsily.

He kisses her forehead. 'You lost consciousness for a few seconds.'

'_La petite mort_…'

'What?'

'La petite mort. The small death. That's what the French call it. It's never happened to me before', she adds shyly, almost embarrassed.

He chuckles weakly, utterly spent. 'You're doing wonders for my ego. And for the record…you're the first woman I…well. You know.'

She presses herself against him. For a long time, neither of them says anything. They're both exhausted and yet unwilling to go to sleep, shaken and thrilled by what they have just shared. 'Are you hungry, or thirsty?' he asks softly. 'Can I get you anything?'

'Something to drink would be nice.'

He gets up and doesn't even bother to put something on. When he comes back later, carrying a tray with water and a bottle of cold white wine, she lets her eyes linger over him, the wide shoulders and thickened waist, the strong legs, the scars too…'Come here', she commands huskily. He joins her on the bed and pours them a glass of water each, then wine, touching her, cupping her hip with his hand, unable to believe that she is here, at last, with him, in his bed.

'You're very quiet…are you alright?' he asks, a hint of anxiety in his eyes.

She kisses him. 'It never occurred to me that it could be like this, between us', she admits. 'I mean…I wanted you, but we were always so restrained together…and all of a sudden, tonight…', she trails off, embarrassed still by how greedy, demanding, unrestrained she was with him earlier.

He draws her in his arms. 'I have about seven years in me, literally, to catch up on with you.'

'Why seven?'

'Well – I realised a year or so after you came to work for us that I was attracted to you. Very attracted in fact.' He brushes her hair back. 'At first…I told myself I loved your quirks, your intelligence…then it became something more. Something deeper. I could no longer ignore it. And once I accepted it…there couldn't be…'He stops, aware that he is straying into dangerous territory.

She strokes his chest. 'I never stopped loving you', she says in a low, strained voice. 'But when I was out there…I felt so lonely and…'

'Ruth, you don't have to explain, it's not as if…'

'I was happy with him, but there was always something missing. That's why we never got married.'

They fall silent, and he is keen to recapture their earlier mood but doesn't know how to. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything', he says, 'I don't want you to feel burdened or…'

She silences him with a deep, thorough kiss. 'We both have….difficult past, Harry. Lots of baggage. But we love each other. And it's all that matters, isn't it?'

He shifts over so that he can lie down on top her fully, ready for her. 'Will you have me now?' he asks. 'Can I…' He doesn't know how to phrase it without being too blunt.

She draws him to her. 'Come home', she whispers. 'Come home to me'.

And he does.

The END.


End file.
